Intraspecific Identicide



Since the school year is dying with the coming of the colors that glitter morning-jitters on the flower petals, since I will never see you again, I’m going to apologize.

I know I didn’t actually bother you or hurt you in any way. I tried to, I guess, but it just bounced right off you and slashed my own sharp tongue right in two. Since you don’t remember, I’ll summarize it for you. I blew up in your face and now it really hurts. Your face, I mean. The part of it that looms in my mind’s eye, that blocks out the images of lights or yesterday in my visuospatial sketchpad.

You’re getting impatient. You don’t remember, nor do you care if I throb quietly in the corner. So I’ll speed things up, because I’d like to get my point across (if in fact it can cross the barrier that seems to protect you from everything else I send your way.)

When two people can mime civilians on both sides of a five-foot-thick wall of air, when two pairs of eyes can settle on the same space and not look for the human hiding in the black hole, when one can say “I’m sorry” and know that the words are a prayer for rain in a desert whose gods don’t speak the same language, that the sand will rise, choke, smoothen and gag the unworthy sinner, that the confession comes too late to extract the sickness from your inner intestines that writhe snakelike in a world where God doesn’t speak rain or second chances – that’s when you know you’re human.

It’s always a bit of a shock, but they move on, generally.


Image credits in order of appearance:

By Diego Delso, CC BY-SA 4.0,

Second photo via Pinterest Daily Inspiration – Baby Leopard


2 thoughts on “Intraspecific Identicide

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